Red waves flow at the rocky shore,
crimson ate at the rapidly dying sand,
engulfing it slowly with what the river had bore,
supplying it with life straight to its core.

Don’t take a dip at the boiling pool,
be craven from touching for it’ll demand
to engulf you into a river of heat for its fuel,
for the hungry glow follows no man’s rule.

And be not convinced by its beguiling beam
since obeisance is what it does not understand
and by Pallas it does scheme,
before it has your final breath be screams.

A flood of blazes crackled through the town
crashing at the quaint and old into the land,
hastening bitter and searing waves falling down
an event so grand and so renowned.

But as a tide grows ever so high,
closing into the Seraphim at God’s right hand;
near midday, it gently ceases until it dies,
and the last red drop that treads does dry.